


there'll be love in the bodies of the elephants too

by dee_lirious



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Come Marking, Come Shot, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Oral Sex, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-15
Updated: 2013-02-15
Packaged: 2017-11-29 08:32:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/684939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dee_lirious/pseuds/dee_lirious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the over four years that Derek and Stiles have been together, they’ve yet to have even one successful Valentine’s Day. Stiles is determined to actually have a proper one this year. </p>
<p>(“I have an ominous feeling,” Stiles muses.</p>
<p>Scott chuckles, and amicably raises his glass of milk in a toast. “Famous last words, dude.”)</p>
            </blockquote>





	there'll be love in the bodies of the elephants too

**Author's Note:**

> IT'S STILL VALENTINE'S DAY FOR A HALF HOUR HERE, SO I COUNT THIS AS A SUCCESS. I didn't mean to write this. I especially didn't mean to write porn, but what can you do.
> 
> Un-beta'ed, except for a cursory read-through by me just now. I don't own Teen Wolf. 
> 
> Sappy title from Noah and the Whale's _Five Years Time_.

 

*

In the over four years that Derek and Stiles have been together, since the night in late November of Stiles’ senior year at Berkley when Derek kisses Stiles against one of the dryers in the basement laundry room of Stiles’ crappy apartment complex—

Well, since then they’ve yet to have even one successful Valentine’s Day.

The first year can be excused since they’ve only been properly dating for a couple weeks at that point, having spent all of December and early January dancing around one another until Stiles finally gets frustrated enough about it to make the drive back to Beacon Hills in the middle of the night and yell at Derek about _feelings_ on his front porch at four in the morning.

So they spend that first Valentine’s Day cautiously casual, texting each other no more or less than usual.

Then Stiles graduates and moves back to Beacon Hills to take a job with an up-and-coming software company on a recommendation from Danny. It’s the year of Stiles’ Independence; he’s twenty-four and, like, a real adult now, with a steady income and an almost-new car, and he can rent an apartment all by himself with his own money and everything.

By the time February rolls around again, Stiles is very much back in the thick of things—comes to pack meetings, stays the night more often than not, and even negotiates a renewed ceasefire with the hunters after a misunderstanding with a couple rogue omegas that wander through town.

The point is, the second Valentine’s Day is full of good intentions; really it is.

*

Derek’s the one who gets all worked up about the holiday, to the surprise of absolutely everyone (except Lydia who scoffs and makes a flippant remark about archetypes) but especially Stiles, who is torn so heavily between the urge to mock and sentimental feelings that he chokes on his cereal.

“Uh, I didn’t know we were doing anything special tonight?” Stiles says, trying not to feel awkward about the armful of candles Derek is carrying or the fact that the rest of the pack is obviously eavesdropping, because apparently being a pack means open season on pancakes every morning.

“It was supposed to be a surprise,” Derek admits, shooting Isaac and Boyd dirty looks for spilling the beans.

“Well, um, great. Just let me know when to be ready?” Stiles says. Derek shoots him a grumpy, fond look and leaves the kitchen.

“I have an ominous feeling,” Stiles muses.

Scott chuckles, and amicably raises his glass of milk in a toast. “Famous last words, dude.”

*

Stiles expected the disaster to come from accidentally knocking over all the candles or overcooking the chicken, but instead he gets called back into work at six, just an hour before their planned dinner. When he gets to the office, ready to bitch passive-aggressively at his boss for making him come to work twice in one day, but everyone else is there too, even the guys who only work part-time.

It turns out to be a big security fiasco with one of their top clients, and Stiles is one of the last people to go home, stumbling back to Derek’s at quarter to three in the morning, long after dinner’s gotten cold. Derek’s already asleep but snuffles awake when Stiles slides into bed.

“Missed you,” he says, sleepily, against the skin of Stiles’ temple.

“You too. Sorry I messed up our plans.”

“S’okay,” Derek says, already drifting back to sleep as he promises, “Next year.”

*

Of course it means that next year turns out even worse. Luckily, Valentine’s Day falls on a weekend, so at least Stiles doesn’t have to worry about work.

Unluckily, Boyd bursts into Derek’s bedroom that night—just as Stiles is about take off his pants and let Derek _do things_ to him—because there’s “something weird in the woods.”

*

The thing turns out to be a really pissed off demon thing with super-sharp claws, so on top of being blue-balled, Stiles gets to watch his boyfriend gutted—Stiles is really not okay with how often he’s seen Derek maimed by things.

Stiles hears screaming, and isn’t sure if it’s him or one of the betas or some combination. He scrambles toward Derek, tearing his jacket off, dimly aware of Scott and Boyd chasing the demon deeper in the woods, spares a second to hope that Allison is on her way with her crossbow and a fuck-ton of salt.

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” Stiles hisses at Derek furiously, shaking hands pressing his jacket hard against Derek’s chest to staunch the bleeding. “I swear to god if you die on me on _Valentine’s Day_ and turn our lives into a romantic tragedy I’ll kill you myself.”

“Healing’s kicking in,” Derek grunts, struggling to keep his eyes open. “It’s, _augh_ —it’s only a flesh wound,” he adds.

“Oh my god,” Stiles says, as he watches the skin knit together underneath his fingers, helpless. “You pick the worst times to make jokes, and your delivery sucks. That was,” he chokes around a sob of relief, “that was really weak.”

“Learned it from you.”

“Liar,” Stiles breathes, daring to laugh a little as the worst of the wound disappears and the bleeding slows. “You’re the most sarcastic person I’ve ever met.”

In the distance there’s a bloodcurdling screech indicating that the demon’s been taken care of, and Stiles slumps. “I pictured this night going a lot differently, just so you know.”

Derek huffs, meeting Stiles’ gaze, looking exhausted. “Story of our lives.”

*

The fourth year falls on a Sunday during one of the worst storms Beacon Hills has gotten in over sixty years. There are rolling blackouts, amber alerts—Stiles isn’t entirely convinced that it’s not related to the hippocamp infestation they’d just had, no matter how much Derek insists that hippocamps have absolutely no weather-related superpowers.

Essentially, the whole pack plus the Sheriff and Chris Argent end up stuck in the Hale house for three days straight, which is an ordeal in and of itself. Stiles’ dad has warmed up to Derek over the years, and his threatening to shoot him are almost always in jest nowadays. Chris, on the other hand, spends the whole weekend hovering over a very pregnant Allison, sniping at Scott, and glaring menacingly at everyone else.

Derek hooks up the old generator he was using during his creeper days so they don’t have to eat everything in the fridge, and they spend most of the weekend watching movies and playing card games.

They all forget that it’s Valentine’s Day until dinnertime, at which point Isaac and Stiles attempt to bake cupcakes, but realize they don’t have eggs halfway through mixing the batter. They all end up sitting on the kitchen floor licking spoonfuls of chocolate batter and listening to the news from the tv in the den.

The sugar ends up triggering Allison’s morning sickness, and Stiles spends the rest of the night fetching water, making herbal tea, and repeatedly telling Scott to calm the fuck down already.

Stiles and Derek finally retreat to Derek’s bedroom at half past one, too tired to even mess around.

“I accidentally mentioned to your dad that half your clothes are here,” Derek murmurs as they settle into bed. “He looked like he wanted to bundle you up in his sheriff’s jacket and take you home.”

Stiles snorts, wiggling so that he can tuck his face against Derek’s collarbone at just the right angle, and says, “He just hates my apartment. He doesn’t think the neighborhood’s safe enough.”

“That’s where your dad and I agree,” Derek says wryly.

“It’s totally not as bad as you think it is,” Stiles says. “I’m going to remind you both that I’ve stabbed a witch in the heart, on two separate occasions, so I think I can handle having to lock my windows at night.”

Derek hums in mild disagreement. He’s quiet for long enough after that Stiles almost drifts off.

“You could move in here.”

It takes Stiles a second to process. He bolts straight up and nearly brains himself against Derek’s chin, and blinks at him with wide eyes.

“ _Dude_ ,” he says.

“Stop calling me dude, it makes me feel like Scott,” Derek says on reflex, and then, sounding a little shy, “You could move in here, with me. If you want to.”

“I call everyone dude,” Stiles says, also on reflex. He knows that Derek can see that he’s grinning, though.  Stiles gropes for Derek’s face in the dark and smashes their mouths together messily.

“Yeah, okay, I’ll move in with you,” he says after they make out for a while.

Stiles is always surprised, over and over, by how gentle Derek’s hands can be. Derek draws Stiles in with a hand at his back, close enough that Stiles can see that he’s smiling too.

*

Okay, so that Valentine’s Day is actually pretty great, but Stiles is determined to actually have a proper one the next year. He makes reservations and buys a new tie. He makes an ardent wish to the universe that nothing creepy or life-threatening will happen, and needles Isaac and Boyd into promising to take care of it themselves unless people start dying. He even lingers in front of the flower shop across the street from work for, like, ten minutes contemplating buying an arrangement before finally deciding that the rest of the pack would make fun of him _forever_ if they ever found out, which they obviously would.

Stiles gets dressed for dinner in his Lydia-approved outfit, feeling inexplicably nervous, which makes no sense at all. He hadn’t been nervous on his and Derek’s four-year anniversary a couple months back, when they’d cleared everyone out within a three-mile radius of the house (Stiles remembers the night fondly, even though he’d had bruises on his ass for weeks).

“Nothing weird is going to happen,” Stiles says sternly into the mirror.

*

Nothing weird happens.

They’re halfway through dinner at the upscale Korean fusion place that Stiles knows Derek loves but thinks is too expensive. Derek’s talking about the renovations he’s doing for the Jamesons’ second floor (their Pomeranian, Lulu, follows him around everywhere, Stiles has seen it and it’s adorable). Despite that, Stiles finds himself glancing down at his phone every two minutes.

He’s clicking through his messages again, kind of unsettled by the fact that no one aside from Derek has texted him all day, when Derek sighs.

“Stiles, what’s wrong?”

“Hm?” Stiles glances up. Derek’s expression is furrowed in confusion and a little bit of hurt. Stiles hastily tucks his phone back in his pocket. “Shit, sorry—”

“We can go home soon, you have to get up early in the morning,” Derek says. He’s staring neutrally down at his plate, where he shovels some food around with a fork. Stiles places a hand on Derek’s guiltily.

“Hey, no, that’s not—I’m just,” Stiles sighs, “Is it just me, or does this feel…?”

“Like what?” Derek asks. “Boring enough to text my betas for a rescue?”

“No, Sassmaster McGee,” Stiles rolls his eyes, fiddling with the straw in his drink. “I _mean,_ doesn’t this feel ominous? Like, that something horrible’s going to happen because we have shitty luck with Valentine’s days? It’s just, you know, anticlimactic.”

The corners of Derek’s mouth twitch. “Are you saying you want to get to the _climactic_ part of the night?”

Stiles snorts, because Derek is secretly a _nerd_ _who makes lame puns_ and no one else ever believes him about it, but right now he’s kind of glad that this is the kind of moment that Derek only shares with him.

“It seems like you’re suggesting something, but you’re being oh-so _subtle_ about it,” Stiles says drily.

“You’re not very subtle about how much you like it,” Derek purrs with a smirk. Stiles takes a sip of his drink and almost chokes on it when he feels a hand creep onto his knee underneath the table.

“Yeah, okay,” he says, feeling a blush spreading up the back of his neck at Derek’s heated, triumphant look. “Let’s go home.”

*

They stumble up the stairs and into their bedroom, knocking a messy pile of papers off the dresser as they brush past on their way to bed.

“Shit, _shit do that again_ —shit, I need those,” Stiles moans, an arm flailing weakly in the direction of the papers as his other hand digs into the soft base of the back of Derek’s neck.

Derek nips a hot line down to Stiles’ collarbone. “I keep telling you to put them in the filing cabinet,” he reminds Stiles.

“Yeah, yeah— _fuck_ _yeah_ —I’ll do it tomorrow.”

Derek rumbles a laugh low in his chest, and they’re pressed close enough together that Stiles can feel it from the center of his chest down, straight to his dick. “No, you won’t,” Derek says easily.

“No, I probably won’t,” Stiles agrees, as he gets his fingers tangled up trying to undo both their ties at once. “Where’s—that tickles, you _know_ that tickles, asshole—where’s the rest of the pack?”

“Patrolling. Shouldn’t be back till after midnight.” Derek bats Stiles’ hands away and rips both their ties off.

“Dude, that was new,” Stiles says, but isn’t resisting as Derek proceeds to tear Stiles’ shirt off and undo his belt.

“It’s a nice tie, looks good on you,” Derek says. He gets a hand into Stiles’ pants, pressing forward enough to push Stiles down on his back. “Blue goes with your eyes.”

Stiles huffs, his eyes shuttering as Derek cups his balls, runs his fingers lightly over Stiles’ shaft. “You _tease_ , did you just talk about my eyes, _jesus_.”

Derek hums, pressing his mouth quickly and firmly against the skin under Stiles’ ear before ducking down to yank the rest of Stiles’ clothes off and nose at Stiles’ upper thigh. “You smell good,” he grunts.

“You get really gruff when you’re going down on me, have I ever told you that,” Stiles says, instinctively lifting his legs to wrap loosely around Derek’s shoulders. “It turns me on, though, so that’s like— _fuck,_ your mouth—that’s like, positive reinforcement, right?”

“You tell me that every other time,” Derek says, and doesn’t wait for Stiles to respond before licking a hot, wet stripe up the length of Stiles’ dick.

Stiles hears himself moaning, arching up when Derek’s mouth is suddenly swallowing him, and clutches at the sheets. “Motherfucker, jesus, _Derek_.”

Derek’s ridiculously good at this, huge hands wandering over Stiles’ hips, his thighs, his stomach, as he keeps an unrelenting rhythm with his mouth, forceful enough and just barely painful enough to bring Stiles to the edge and keep him there. Stiles pants to catch his breath, glances down and is struck by the sight of Derek’s messy hair and the strong line of his nose. Stiles presses a hand against the side of Derek’s face, brushes his thumb firmly against the corner of Derek’s lips where they’re stretched around Stiles’ cock.

“You’re so fucking _pretty_ ,” Stiles breathes, desperate.

Derek meets Stiles’ gaze and his eyes are smoldering in the way that always makes Stiles’ spine noticeably shiver. Derek makes a frantic noise, like a whimper, like he’s determined, and then Stiles feels Derek’s hand underneath his balls. There’s a brief, gentle pressure there, and then Derek’s fingers are ghosting over Stiles’ hole, and Stiles curses and shakes as he comes.

“Your fucking mouth, your fucking hands, goddammit,” Stiles says, all in one breath, when his vision starts to clear, and he’s suddenly looking at Derek—who still has his shirt on, what the fuck—on his knees between Stiles’ splayed legs with his stupid-huge hands wrapped tight around his own dick and a concentrated crease between his eyes as he fucks into his fist at a brutal pace.

Stiles’ limbs feel too heavy to really move, but his dick twitches in a valiant attempt. Stiles groans, softly, and says, “You look so fucking _filthy_ , you dick, fuck, Derek, come on me right now, come on—”

Derek arches into his hand, head tilted back as he comes with a drawn-out moan, adding gratuitously to the mess across Stiles’ torso. He pants for a few long seconds before he opens his eyes and collapses onto Stiles with a wet thump.

“So gross, dude,” Stiles hums, runs a hand through Derek’s hair.

“Shh,” Derek says.

*

Stiles is hovering right on the edge of sleep when both their phones go off at once. Derek startles hard enough that he elbows Stiles in the hip as they struggle into a sitting position.

“What,” Derek snaps in his Alpha Voice when he picks up. Stiles raises an eyebrow at him, because from this end Derek doesn’t look nearly as authoritative as he sounds, with half his hair slicked up and sideways with come.

_Danger?_ Stiles mouths at him, and Derek nods, eyes grim. He hangs up a second later with a terse “be there soon” barked into the phone and catches the clothes that Stiles throws at him—a cheap, plain t-shirt, and an older pair of jeans that’s dark enough to hide most bloodstains.

They’re out the door at the same time and striding toward the car, Stiles trading Derek’s jacket for a dark hoodie.

“Rushing off into danger on a national holiday,” Stiles says, “This feels weirdly right; our lives are weird.”

“ _Climactic_ enough Valentine’s Day for you?” Derek asks, wry, as they climb in.

Stiles snorts and shoves Derek’s shoulder. He rests his hand there for an extra second, grinning fondly at Derek’s profile in the dark interior of the car. “Happy Valentine’s Day, you huge, lame dork.”

*

 

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on [tumblr](http://dee-lirious.tumblr.com/) where i mostly just reblog things and type my feelings in all caps.


End file.
